


Dark Window (Part 1 of the Sins of Omission series)

by LeslieFish



Series: Sins of Omission [1]
Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: (Post-Endgame) After Kell's death, Duncan goes to Methos for comfort. Chapter 1 of the Sins of Omission series.





	Dark Window (Part 1 of the Sins of Omission series)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a long series of Post-Endgame Duncan/Methos slash tales.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The series was originally archived here: http://hlfiction.net/viewuser.php?uid=75

  
For once the warning buzz in his skull didn’t send Methos reaching for his sword. He knew who it had to be.  
  
_He’s come to me, not Joe._ For some obscure reason the thought made his throat tighten, but Methos didn’t stop to analyze the feeling. A few quick keystrokes blanked the computer’s screen and hid the damning words of the stark report. _No point making the man see that, salt in a raw wound._ He got up and went to the door, toward that well-known sensation.  
  
Yes, there stood Duncan MacLeod, looking twenty years older than he had this morning. Impossible, of course: Immortals didn’t age. Yet here it was.  
  
“Come in,” Methos said automatically, moving back from the door.  
  
Duncan took a step forward, then paused. There was something wrong with his eyes: unfocussed, not really seeing anything here. “…Are you busy?” he asked vaguely. “…Alone?”  
  
Methos bit back the easy retort: what on Earth would he be doing so soon after an epic battle and a heart-tearing tragedy, holding a bloody Tupperware party? No, no flippancy now. “Come in,” he repeated. “No one else is here.”  
  
Duncan wandered into the apartment, feet as unguided as his eyes. He bumped into the couch, then fumbled his way around the end of it, and dropped onto the cushions like a sack of meat and bones. His eyes wandered to the night-darkened window, where rain was beginning to pepper the glass.  
  
_Storms often follow battles, or heavy Quickenings…_ Methos shoved the thought aside and went to the liquor cabinet. A good strong Scotch for Duncan, no ice. One for himself might be a good idea too.  
  
As he approached the couch Methos saw that Duncan was shaking, shuddering slowly in heavy waves that he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes stayed fixed on the black window, even when Methos shoved a glass into his hand. Methos noticed that Duncan’s hands were icy, though it wasn’t that cold outside. Also his clothes were dry; Duncan hadn’t even been out in the rain. Not good, not good at all.  
  
Methos settled carefully onto the couch beside Duncan, and took a quick sip of his own drink. “What’s happened?” he asked calmly.  
  
Duncan clenched and loosened his hands unconsciously around his glass. Clenched, and loosened. “I’ve killed Connor,” was all he said.  
  
Methos felt the hair lift up on the back of his neck. He’d seen the words in the email, the simple ugly facts. It wasn’t the same, hearing them like this. “Tell me about it,” he almost whispered.  
  
“He forced me to it.” The words were flat, expressionless. “We’d both tried and failed with Kell. Neither of us could take him. Not alone. Connor said…” Duncan faltered, shuddering harder. “The only way to stop him was…” His voice trailed off, frozen.  
  
“He told you to take him, take his power,” Methos pushed the story another step onward, as if he’d guessed it.  
  
Duncan only nodded, once, and left his head down. His hands shook so heavily that some of the whiskey slopped out onto his wrist. Methos wondered if he should take the glass and hold it to Duncan’s mouth, amiably force-feed its contents down his throat, anything to break that frozen shuddering.  
  
But Duncan found the thread of words again. “Him or me, he said — and he wasn’t going to lose me to Kell…” Again, a long pause that spoke volumes.  
  
“You mean, he knew that Kell would come for you next,” Methos prodded. “He wouldn’t lose the last person on Earth that he loved.”  
  
Again, that heavy shudder. “Either he’d take me inside him…or I’d take him with me.” Duncan blinked and pulled a deep breath. “He meant it. The fight was real, Methos. He pressed me so hard…” Duncan looked at his hands, seemed to notice his drink for the first time and absently drained it. The fiery liquid might have been water for all the change it made.  
  
“He forced you,” Methos insisted, knowing where this would go.  
  
Duncan didn’t appear to notice. “Once, I got him down. ‘Do it’, he said. But I couldn’t. So he rose up and came for me again, maneuvered me into that damned pattern. I was into before I realized– I had the blade right at his throat before I could stop myself–” Duncan choked to a halt, frozen again.  
  
“But you did stop,” Methos revealed — then mentally kicked himself, then realized that Duncan was in no condition to notice, to wonder how he’d known.  
  
“I did stop,” Duncan whispered. “And he wouldn’t let me pull away. His hand clamped on mine so I couldn’t drop my sword. His blade pressed on mine, so heavy– His eyes burning into me–” The glass fell out of Duncan’s hand as he clutched his knees: a white-knuckled grip, as if straining on a sword-hilt. “I barely had time to tell him I loved him!”  
  
Long seconds of silence stretched, broken only by Duncan’s panting, as if he’d just run up three flights of stairs.  
  
_At least he’s breathing,_ Methos dared to hope. “But you did tell him. He heard you.”  
  
“I saw it in his eyes,” Duncan whispered. “Saw he’d always known.” Again, the shivering. “And he pressed his sword harder. And then…there was no more time.”  
  
Methos slipped one arm along the back of the couch, behind Duncan’s slumping shoulders, ready to draw him close but not touching yet, not yet. “He forced you to it.”  
  
Duncan’s fingers slowly loosened their iron grip on his knees. His eyes wandered back to the rain-streaked black window. “I saw his head fall back…the light blaze from his throat…” His voice began to shake, ever so slightly. “I held myself open to it, wanted all of him, not just his power: his knowledge, his memories, his…presence. And I got it. I got it all.”  
  
For the first time, Duncan looked at Methos and actually saw him.  
  
“He was there, Methos.” An awed whisper now. “I could feel him. His mind, inside me. Alive. He was **there**.”  
  
Methos nodded slowly, mind racing. “If a Dark Quickening, why not…?” The possibilities staggered him.  
  
Duncan looked away, panting again, struggling to get the message out. “I went to Kell and fought him. Twice he had me down, and twice it was Connor who pulled me up again. The second time… He took over completely. I felt him move my body, speak through my mouth. His voice, Methos. Not mine. It was Connor, not me, who struck the last blow, took Kell’s head. Connor.”  
  
“But it was your body. You were there, conscious.” For some reason that was terribly important. “You helped.”  
  
“Yes…” Duncan’s eyes had gone wide and unseeing again. “I helped. Moved with him, gave him all he asked, let him use me completely. Gladly I did.”  
  
Methos felt his hair lifting again. Dark Quickening or Bright, this was Possession — and that was not good for human beings. Not even immortal ones.  
  
Duncan pulled a deep, ragged breath. “When Kell’s Quickening started, I tried to hold it off. Clenched myself like a fist, and felt Connor shielding me. I wanted nothing of Kell, not even his power. But it came to me anyway. Burning…” He panted, and shuddered. “I held off everything else, but it hurt. God, it hurt! I could hear myself screaming…”  
  
Methos pressed his arm against Duncan’s shoulders, aching to draw that pain out of him. Duncan didn’t appear to notice.  
  
“After…” Voice down to a whisper again. “Afterward, there was nothing of Kell. But I couldn’t feel Connor, either. His presence was gone. He’s gone. I’ve lost him forever. …And I feel so cold…”  
  
Methos tossed down the last of his drink and set the glass aside. This he could deal with. “It’s called shock, Duncan. We’re not immune to it.”  
  
Duncan didn’t answer. He was back to staring sightlessly at the dark rain, the black window.  
  
“That, at least, there’s a cure for.” Methos took firm hold on Duncan and hauled him to his feet. “This way. March.”  
  
He half-led/half-carried Duncan toward the bathroom, grimly noting that the man moved like an automaton, as if he were frozen nearly to death, an iceberg of grief. Oh, this was bad.  
  
Methos dumped Duncan unceremoniously on the toilet seat, reached into the shower-stall and flicked on the hot water. For an instant he regretted that he’d never had a full-sized bathtub put in here, or a Jacuzzi, or any pool of hot water big enough to sink Duncan into up to his nose and hold him there while he thawed. Oh, for the Roman baths again! But this would have to do.  
  
He pulled Duncan’s shirt off his unprotesting arms, then went to work on the shoes. Duncan sat, passive as a wooden doll. Methos had to pull him to his feet to strip off the pants and briefs. Duncan didn’t respond to that, either.  
  
Methos tested the water, added a touch of cold, then bodily pushed Duncan into the spray and closed the glass door after him. “Wash up thoroughly, my boy,” he called, guessing that Duncan wouldn’t do it. “I’ll go get you something hot to drink.”  
  
Duncan didn’t move nor answer.  
  
Cursing silently, Methos hurried off to the kitchen.  
  
On the way, he stopped to snatch up the Scotch. He grabbed the largest mug he could find and threw in the ingredients: milk, honey, a pinch of cinnamon and a large dose of whiskey. Then to the microwave, bless the wonders of modern technology. Get it almost to boiling; this might take a long time. When the timer chimed out, the mug was nearly too hot to hold. Methos took it to the bedroom, set it down on the nightstand, then hurried back to the bathroom.  
  
A quick peek through the barely-opened glass door showed that Duncan hadn’t moved. He was standing slumped against the wall, resting his face on his raised forearms. The hot water streamed off him, making no impression.  
  
_Damn. Going to be difficult…_ Methos stripped off his own clothes, glanced at the position of the terrycloth bathrobe and towels, pulled open the shower and stepped into the steaming water. “All right, I suppose I can do it for you,” he murmured into Duncan’s unresponsive ear.  
  
Now: sponge, washcloth or brush? Did Duncan need to feel the stimulation of bristles, or a gentle touch? Take no chances: start soft. Methos soaked and lathered the sponge, then circled it cautiously between Duncan’s shoulder blades. No response. He circled further, up the bowed neck, down to the waist, along the barely-moving ribs. Was Duncan ticklish? …No response.  
  
Methos had to press close to reach around Duncan and scrub his chest. The feel of that muscular back against his belly was distracting. Methos ignored it and scrubbed onward. Arms, throat, face — and still Duncan didn’t move.  
  
Well, no putting it off; time to go below the waist. See if that raised a twitch or not. Methos scrubbed firmly across the small firm buttocks, down the corded thighs, calves, long-toed feet. No response. He might as well have been washing a statue.  
  
_Washing a marble statue of a god, for a Roman festival day…_ A statue no doubt modeled on some victorious athlete, as an ideal of beauty…  
  
Unbidden, the memory came: lazing in the warm pool of the Junian baths, watching the champion runner Apollonius of Ostia. The man might as well have worn his laurel crown into the water, he was so plainly aware of who and what he was, and of his effect on the spectators. Studying the sheer animal splendor of that magnificent body, Methos felt a slow lazy surge of desire that he had no intention of acting upon. It was enough simply to lie in the warm water and admire that beauty — all the more poignant for knowing that it would soon fade.  
  
Apollonius of Ostia had nothing on Duncan MacLeod.  
  
_Well, of course he’s beautiful,_ Methos crossly reminded himself. _Superb athletes usually are._  
  
But now he remembered another day at the baths, another man who strode into the water, ignoring his embarrassed guards, totally unselfconscious, who was not an athlete, but whose beauty overshadowed the champion’s like an eclipse of the sun.  
  
Gaius Octavianus Caesar, called Augustus, Imperator of Rome, was a small man with the giveaway blue eyes and dark-blonde hair that betrayed low-class Sabine blood. Methos remembered that the man’s grandfather had been a slave who worked his way to freedom and then up to Plebian rank. The eldest son of the next generation had worked up to Equite rank, then bought his way into the Nobilis class — with enough money left over to win the hand of Julius Caesar’s niece, back in the days when Caesar and family always needed money. The Octavians were obviously an intelligent, determined, hard-working breed — and it showed in the grandson.  
  
Octavianus Caesar had suffered a touch of polio as a child, but had overcome it by assiduous exercise. He had also seen more military service than he wanted to, in the hectic days of civil war after Julius Caesar’s murder. The results showed in his body, which was still trim and sharp-muscled in middle age.  
  
He had also had the boldness and intelligence to win the loyalty of Caesar’s legions, to use that and his position as Caesar’s lawful heir to force his way into the cauldron of Roman politics after the assassination and to make himself part of the new ruling triumvirate — all at the age of eighteen. He had spent the next ten years clearing away Caesar’s killers, reducing the triumvirate to two, then sending Marcus Antonius off to seize the riches of Egypt — and fall into the plottings of Cleopatra — while Octavianus stayed in Rome, made welcome reforms, won the love of the Senate and populace both, and carried out a clever character assassination behind Antonius’ back. The world knew how that story had ended, leaving Octavianus the undisputed master of the Roman world by the time he was thirty. That mind had left its imprint on the man’s face: the thoughtful eyes, the calmly resolute mouth, even the elegant bones.  
  
Now that was a face to die for. Methos, watching the man simply bathe, had been struck by a pang of longing that had amazed him. _My gods, I could fall in love with that man!_ he’d marveled, even as he sank deeper into the pool to hide his embarrassing reaction…  
  
And Octavianus Caesar Augustus had nothing on Duncan MacLeod, either.  
  
_It’s the imprint of the soul on the body, the face; that’s what draws me, in man or woman…_  
  
Methos crouched at Duncan’s feet like an ancient bath-slave, and firmly thrust that thought away. No, he was not going down that road now. Especially not now.  
  
_Next stage. See if he reacts._ Methos slowly swirled the sponge back up Duncan’s legs, rubbing first the shins, then knees, then the inner thighs.  
  
Still nothing.  
  
Finally Methos circled the sponge upward, rubbing softly across the groin.  
  
Duncan twitched.  
  
_Thank all the gods, he’s not catatonic,_ Methos thought, working the sponge up Duncan’s belly as if he’d noticed nothing. _And he’s warm again. Quick now, before the water cools…_  
  
Methos sponged himself off hastily, stood in the spray for a moment, and then turned it off. He pushed Duncan out of the shower and into the terrycloth robe, then applied the towel rapidly, not wanting to let the heat dissipate. Finally he wrapped the towel around his own waist and steered Duncan out of the bathroom, down the hallway and into the bedroom.  
  
Duncan let himself be moved like a puppet, into the bed, onto the fluffed pillows, under the blankets with an extra quilt thrown on and tucked up to his chin. He didn’t react when Methos turned the lights down, the thermostat up, and slid into bed beside him. Only his eyes moved, turning toward the dark bedroom window and the storm beyond.  
  
_Should have pulled the curtains,_ Methos considered, reaching for the mug, which was still warm. _Too late now._ “Drink, Duncan,” he said, lifting the cup close to Duncan’s chin. “Or do you want me to hold it for you?”  
  
Duncan wordlessly raised a slow hand, took the mug, and dutifully drained it. It had no more effect than the previous drink.  
  
Methos took back the mug and set it aside. “Duncan,” he said, very calmly, “What are you feeling now?”  
  
Duncan paused so long that Methos began to wonder if he’d even heard, then finally dragged up a single word. “Nothing,” he said.  
  
_Bad. Very bad._ “Well, at least you’re not cold anymore.”  
  
Duncan didn’t reply. His eyes drifted closed, but he pulled his arms up to cross on his chest like a corpse in a coffin, and his knees began drawing upward.  
  
_Don’t let him get into the fetal position!_ Methos boldly slid his thigh across Duncan’s knees, pinning them down, rolled against Duncan and began massaging his shoulders through the terrycloth. “Let’s see if we can get you a little warmer,” he explained, and then mentally kicked himself again when he realized how suggestive that sounded.  
  
Duncan only gave a long sigh, and sagged deeper into the pillows. His legs straightened, then went limp.  
  
_Sleep,_ thought Methos, rubbing gently. _You need it. Pray for no dreams._ He let his hands slow and go still as Duncan’s breathing deepened, but kept lying half-across him, not about to sleep himself, waiting. His only concession to sleep was to turn the lamp down to its lowest setting.  
  
The change came with the height of the storm. Thunder rolled like an immense bowling-ball around the sky, and lightning flashed bright sheets against the window.  
  
Duncan groaned in his sleep, and turned his head.  
  
Methos tightened his grip and waited, guessing what Duncan dreamed.  
  
Lightning flared again, repeated, dangerously close, and thunder bellowed directly overhead.  
  
Duncan cried out, head lashing on the pillows. His body jerked and lunged in Methos’ grip.  
  
_Here it comes,_ thought Methos, holding tighter.  
  
Thunder roared and Duncan howled back at it, struggling blindly in a tangle of bedclothes as if fighting some enemy or trying to escape one. Methos strained to hold him.  
  
Lightning crashed, seeming right outside the window. Duncan wailed like a lost soul, the cry breaking at the end into half-coherent words: all of them Connor’s name.  
  
“Duncan!” Methos called to him through the nightmare, wondering if Duncan were awake or not, if it mattered or not. He pulled the thrashing body close, then felt Duncan’s arms wrap around him and cling hard, like a drowning sailor clutching a floating timber. “Hold on!” he shouted, as much to himself as to Duncan.  
  
And the lightning flashed.  
  
Bound tight to that surging body, Methos realized that Duncan was no longer struggling against some unseen enemy but writhing in unbearable pain. The iceberg of grief had thawed with a vengeance, released in a torrent that swept him on, helpless as a twig in a millrace. Methos rode it with him, like a surfer on the crest of a tidal wave. All he could do was roll on top of Duncan and hold him, hold and pray that this rampaging flood wouldn’t drown both of them.  
  
Again the lighting sheeted and thunder roared at the window, and Methos felt tears start. At first all he noticed was hot liquid spreading, where Duncan’s face was pressed to his shoulder, and at first he thought it was blood. Only the lack of a blood-scent told him otherwise, told him there was hope. Duncan had become a conduit for the flood of grief, and though it shook him nearly to pieces it was — finally, finally! — flowing out of him and away.  
  
A foot flailing in emptiness warned Methos that they were perilously close to the edge of the wide bed. He rolled backward, pulling Duncan with him, and felt the hot pool of tears spill over his chest. Duncan dragged in a ragged breath and let it out in another desolate wail, as if he couldn’t breathe without crying. Methos gripped tighter.  
  
“Let it out, Duncan,” he panted to the bowed head pressed against his shoulder. “Let it all go. Bleed out.” But any answer there might have been was drowned under another crash of thunder. “Hold on, hold on…” All he could do was hold on. _Gods, if only the lightning would stop!_ He could imagine what it was doing to Duncan, raking into raw memories, stabbing into fresh wounds.  
  
It clawed at his own wounds: the memory of killing Silas, ancient friend and irredeemable monster. Duncan had killed Kronos in the same instant. The double Quickening had lashed the two of them together with chains of ravening lightning, drowned them in the same flood of agony/ecstasy, victory and grief. He couldn’t think of it without trembling, and now the lightning wouldn’t let him stop. Himself and Duncan, bound by lightning and pain: he wondered just where the binding went, and how deep.  
  
Thunder again, and Duncan groaned on every breath. Oh, but the thunder was a friend, drowning the sounds of pain, its sonic blows hammering sorrow out of the flesh, hammers beating sword-blade on an anvil… Oh gods, was the thunder going away?  
  
Methos turned to look out the window. Yes, the storm-cell had passed overhead, leaving distant and slackening flares of light, trailing grumbles of thunder and the hard machine-gun rattling of the rain. Now he could hear and feel Duncan sobbing in a slow but steady rhythm. Methos realized that he too was breathing at the same pace, heartbeat thudding in cadence with Duncan’s.  
  
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to loosen his grip, slide and circle his hands on Duncan’s back, pressing out the last of that flood of pain. Ne noticed in passing that the robe had come open and was almost pulled off, clinging only to Duncan’s arms and shoulders. For that matter, his own towel had come untied and lay somewhere under them. They were pressed skin to skin, all but naked, not that it mattered; he could feel Duncan breathing with him, the sobs quieting, the acid grief draining, leaving only a vast but quiet ache in its place.  
  
_Victory. And survival._ Yes, this was much like a brush with death. Methos felt almost euphoric with relief that the shadow had passed him by, again. _…But what shadow?_  
  
Then it occurred to him that if Duncan hadn’t pulled out of that savage depression, hadn’t thawed the pain loose, he would have had no future — nothing but an uncaring death at the hands of the next Immortal he met, or the blank hell of Sanctuary. Connor had chosen that.  
  
Methos shuddered and pulled Duncan closer. _No, not that for Duncan! Rescued him from it once already…_  
  
And Methos had to stop right there, retrace his thoughts, and face the inevitable conclusion that he’d avoided so long. Yes, just why had he led that raid into Sanctuary, taken that risk? Taken several such risks, in fact? Even offered Duncan his head once?  
  
_He’s a better man than I am…_ Oh, but there was more to it than that. _All right, I love him._ Yes, and for better reason than he could have loved Octavianus Caesar Augustus, master of the known world. Better reason than he’d had for loving many people, men and women, in 5000 years.  
  
Under his hands Duncan stirred and groaned softly. “Ahhhh, Connor! Connor…” A soft wail, not like its rending predecessors. “I loved him, and I never told him but the once!”  
  
“Hush,” Methos soothed, stroking his back. “He knew.” _Sleep. Oh, sleep. Let the wounds heal._  
  
“Lost him forever…” No, Duncan wasn’t going to sleep, not yet.  
  
“You still have his memories,” Methos tried.  
  
Duncan flinched heavily against him. “I don’t dare look at them!”  
  
“Shh, easy… Why not?” _Let him talk it out, then._  
  
Duncan pulled his head up to where he could look at Methos. His eyes were wet, and seemed to glow in the dim light. “I dreamed– saw one of them. His last second before he died.”  
  
Methos ground his teeth, trying not to imagine that.  
  
Duncan pressed a hand over his streaming eyes. “Oh God, Methos, he wanted to die! I felt his purpose– Ever since he lost Brenda, and it tightened when Rachel died. That’s why he went to Sanctuary.”  
  
_Damn him!_ Methos thought, biting his lip.  
  
“He came to see me before he left…” Duncan stopped rubbing his eyes, and clenched his fist on the quilt. “He was strange and distant, and I didn’t know why. He didn’t tell me about Rachel… Oh, if only I’d known! I could have gotten through to him somehow, made him stay…”  
  
“He must have had his reasons not to tell you. Look at that memory and–”  
  
“I don’t dare! What if he only came to say goodbye? Or what if he came to me for help, but didn’t know how to ask for it, and I was too stupid to see? What if–”  
  
“Hush.” Methos pulled him close, stopping the flow. This was going nowhere but down. “Stop beating yourself, Duncan. You don’t know the answer, and you won’t until you’re ready to face the memory. You’re not up to that now.”  
  
“…No,” Duncan admitted, “I’m not.” He sagged against Methos and let out a sigh that seemed to empty him.  
  
“There, there…” Methos went back to massaging Duncan’s shoulders, hoping that the hypnotic rhythm would steer the man toward sleep. “Rest, now. Rest…”  
  
“Mmmm. Feels good,” Duncan mumbled against his chest.  
  
_Hallelujah!_ thought Methos, slowly widening the circle of his strokes. _At last, something besides pain._  
  
Suddenly Duncan tensed, then abruptly rolled away from Methos and onto his back. His arms came up to cross on his chest again, and his knees rose.  
  
_Not that again!_ Methos lunged after him and pressed those knees down with his thigh. “Easy, easy! What did I do, pinch?”  
  
Duncan shook his head fast, squeezing his eyes shut. “Nothing you did,” he whispered.  
  
“Ah, another bad memory then?” Methos pressed a hand to Duncan’s bare chest and circled, gently. “Can you tell me about it?”  
  
Instead, Duncan tried to shove his hands away. Surprised, Methos fell off-balance. His leg slid up to Duncan’s belly — and brushed across an unmistakable erection. He laughed in sudden understanding.  
  
“What, is that all you’re hiding?” Methos pressed his palm flat over the swollen organ. Duncan flinched, went rigid, and turned his face away. “Am I supposed to be afraid of that?” Methos persisted. “Why? It isn’t exactly a sword, is it?”  
  
Duncan gave two syllables of a laugh, but the third sounded more like a sob. “N-not exactly,” he managed. “Take your hand off it. Please.”  
  
Methos moved his hand enough to give Duncan a light slap on the near thigh. “Gladly,” he said, “If you’ll just explain to me why you’re so bloody embarrassed about a perfectly natural reaction.”  
  
“Natural?” Duncan muttered.  
  
“It’s a very common result of relief — from severe stress, or pain. Hadn’t you noticed that, in four hundred years?”  
  
Duncan blinked at him. “I thought…”  
  
“Oh dear gods, you thought you were the only one?”  
  
“Well, I knew it happened to other men, but I thought…it meant…”  
  
“Don’t tell me! You thought that any man who gets a hard-on when there’s no pretty female in sight must be some sort of pervert. Right?”  
  
“…Something like that.” Even in the dim light, Duncan was blushing visibly.  
  
“Gods!” Methos laughed. “But what else could I expect from a medieval, puritanical Scot?”  
  
“Renaissance, actually.” Duncan sounded a little less tense. “I was born in 1592.”  
  
“I suspect that news of the Renaissance didn’t make it as far as Glenfinnan.”  
  
“And we were Presbyterians, not Puritans.”  
  
“No difference, really, except angels-on-a-pinhead arguments about the nature of predestination.” Old memories slid Methos’ amusement closer to annoyance. “Really, Duncan, I’ve seen this madness spread over the world for the last 2000 years, and I still don’t understand why sensible people believe it.”  
  
“Believe what?” Duncan sounded honestly confused.  
  
“Hating your natural desires, hating your body for making you feel them, exalting the spirit by abusing the flesh until it gives up and dies, because the flesh is evil and only the spirit is good — and that’s perilously close to the Manichean Heresy, by the way.”  
  
“You’ve lost me.”  
  
“That’s the one which holds that only spirit is good, all matter is evil, a good god couldn’t have created anything evil, so therefore he created only spirit and the devil made the whole material creation.”  
  
“Wait a minute–”  
  
“Right. The early church fathers soon realized that this would give The Devil equal powers with The Lord. Big no-no. So they hastily declared the idea a heresy, killed as many of its followers as they could catch, and added the side comment that the devil has no creative powers; he can’t create anything but illusions. They chose to overlook that one when they went out hunting witches, but that’s another story.”  
  
“Holy…shit.”  
  
“My thoughts exactly.”  
  
“I’m no puritan,” Duncan grumbled, shifting his thighs restlessly. “God knows, I’ve screwed enough women.”  
  
“Mhm. And how many men?”  
  
“Wha– None! Never! I never did–”  
  
Methos laughed. _Well, this has taken his mind off his troubles!_ “And I suppose you never masturbated, either.”  
  
“Oh, get real!”  
  
“Nor ever got or gave oral sex?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“Aha. So: women are allowed, beating off is grudgingly allowed, and everything else is taboo. And you say you’re not a puritan!”  
  
“And I suppose you’ve done it with everything from aardvarks to zebras!”  
  
“Actually, I never managed to catch an aardvark…”  
  
Duncan burst into an explosion of laughter, grabbed a pillow and hit Methos with it. Methos happily responded in kind. They flailed at each other, swapping insults for long minutes.  
  
“Puritan!” WHAP.  
  
“Sybarite!” WHUP.  
  
“Medieval Scot!” THWUP.  
  
“Decadent Roman!” THWAP.  
  
“Gotcha!”  
  
“Give back my pillow!”  
  
“Come and get it!”  
  
They wrestled briefly, wound up holding each other and giggling against each other’s necks. It seemed to be a moment of perfection that nothing could break.  
  
Then Methos felt something nudge his leg. Duncan winced, and pulled away.  
  
“Ah, it’s still stiff?” Methos guessed.  
  
“It’ll go away.”  
  
“And how long will you lie there, blue-balled and miserable, until it does?” said Methos, shoving pillows back under Duncan’s head. “Just take my towel and beat it into submission.”  
  
“Methos! …What’s the towel for?”  
  
“To wrap around your John Thomas. No fuss, no muss, no wet sheets or sticky belly.”  
  
“Methos, please!”  
  
“Well, they’re my sheets.”  
  
“Dammit…”  
  
“Hmmm, or do you want me to do it for you?”  
  
“No! Dammit, Methos–”  
  
“Gods, you’re so easy to twit!” Methos chuckled. “No sense of humor, just like a puritan. If you have a smile on your face, you’re probably sinning. God forbid you should laugh!”  
  
“Oh, hell. Give me that towel.”  
  
“Happy to oblige.” Methos pulled the towel out from under his hip and handed it over. He could hear Duncan fumbling with it under the blankets. For a few moments he could also hear Duncan’s quickening breath. Then the motion stopped.  
  
“I can’t do this with you watching me.”  
  
“I’ll keep my eyes closed.”  
  
“But you’ll know.”  
  
“Know what? That you’re doing exactly as I’ve done — and seen done — a few hundred thousand times? Don’t be silly, Duncan. Go on and scratch your itch.”  
  
“Not an ordinary itch.”  
  
“Look, I’ll swear on a stack of bibles that I’ll never tease you about it.”  
  
“It isn’t that…”  
  
“No? Aha!” Methos chortled wickedly. “Do you think that the sight will Inflame My Passions to the point where I leap on you and ravish your trembling, virginal body?”  
  
“Methos, please!”  
  
“Hmmm. Or are you afraid that my presence will inflame **your** passions to the point where you leap on **me** and ravish **my** trembling, not-so-virginal body?”  
  
No answer. Dead silence from the other side of the bed.  
  
_I struck a nerve._ Methos stared at him. “Duncan?” No answer. “Bona dea, is that what you really think?!”  
  
Duncan pulled a ragged breath. “Listen,” he whispered. “Truth. I’ve never told anyone. There were a few times…when one of us was hurt, and the other gave comfort…”  
  
“You mean Connor?”  
  
“…and sometimes I would feel…more than just an aching tenderness for him.” Duncan snatched a hard breath through his teeth. “This! Sometimes I’d feel the beginning, the first warning itch…”  
  
“Duncan…”  
  
“If it was me hurt, I could pull away…pull myself together, somehow…not let him know. If it was him, I had to endure it…turn my leg so he wouldn’t see…or feel… He never knew. I managed to do that much. But, God, how it shamed me! Now do you understand?”  
  
_More than you know._ Methos chose his words with infinite care. “Truth for truth, Duncan. Listen, and I will tell you a mystery; you’re not alone.”  
  
“You too?” Duncan muttered. His tone implied: what else could one expect of Methos, the ancient sybarite, the pure survivor with no particular honor and no commitment to anything but his own hide. That hurt.  
  
“More than just me, Duncan. Listen. You know, you’ve felt, that sex with no emotional attachment is nothing but scratching an itch.”  
  
“I’ve noticed.”  
  
“And you’ve seen, too, that the emotional attachment adds a whole new dimension to the feeling, makes it almost…transcendent.”  
  
“I know,” Duncan whispered.  
  
“Then understand that the current runs both ways. If you feel strongly about someone, the sensual element will creep into it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Whether you’re holding your best friend or petting your cat, there’s a sensual dimension to it. If the emotion is strong enough, that will grow into a sexual feeling. It’s the way we’re made, Duncan: the way the human nervous system is wired. It’s true of everybody, not just you — even if no one is willing to admit it.” _Nor even understand it, thanks to 2000 years of body-hating madness._  
  
“You can’t mean– No– No innocence anywhere?!”  
  
“Innocence is something else. What I’m telling you is that there’s no such thing as ‘pure, spiritual love’. Where there’s emotion, there’s some degree of physical feeling. If you doubt that, read the Visions of Saint Teresa — or just look at the famous Bernini statue. Whew! Blatant religious porno! No, I’m telling you there was nothing perverse about your feelings for Connor. You didn’t need to despise yourself for that. You don’t now, either.”  
  
“He would have despised me, if he’d known!”  
  
“Are you sure about that?” _Careful! Going too fast, too far…_  
  
“What–do–you–mean?” There was real danger in that voice.  
  
“I mean,” Methos plunged ahead recklessly, “That when you’re ready, search Connor’s memories and see how **he** felt about **you**.”  
  
Duncan grunted as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus.  
  
_Don’t give him time to recover, summon outrage over his kinsman’s bloody honor._ “Meanwhile, since you’re still plagued with that pesky erection, I’ll tell you another secret.”  
  
“…What?” Duncan asked vaguely, still stunned by that last concept.  
  
“That inside your mind, You Are God. You can imagine anything you want to, wallow in any nasty thoughts you want to — and it won’t change a thing. No god is peeping into your mind to sneer at your masturbation fantasies–” _Oho! See him flinch at that!_ “–and nothing on Earth is going to be affected by what you think or feel. ‘The world rolls on, oblivious To all our cries and tears’. You should know that by now.”  
  
“…I don’t understand.”  
  
“I mean, go ahead and beat off — and think about Connor.” _Careful!_ “Remember what you felt for him, including the desire — and imagine fulfilling it.”  
  
Duncan gasped, and shuddered.  
  
“It certainly won’t affect him,” Methos finished, “And it just might free you.”  
  
Duncan didn’t yell, didn’t throw a punch at him, only sagged back on the pillows and gulped for air. His eyes were wide, almost terrified, but he was seriously considering the idea. Finally he shook his head. “I can’t,” he said.  
  
“Why?” _Get it out. Say it._  
  
“Because…I can’t feel him anymore, but…somewhere down in the back of my brain…he might still be there.”  
  
_I doubt it,_ Methos considered. _If that storm of grief didn’t draw him out, nothing will._ But he had to say something else to Duncan, had to let him believe that there was still some chance for…what, repossession? “Then this might pull him to the surface, bring him back.”  
  
“He’d hate me for it!”  
  
“Again, you don’t know. And even if he came up bellowing in outrage, at least he’d be there — close enough to talk to.” _Gods, this is madness, and I’m feeding it! …But he’s half mad already with grief, guilt and shame. If this can help…_  
  
Duncan resolutely closed his eyes. Under the blankets his hand moved, clenching the end of the towel and the swollen flesh under it. “Don’t watch,” he whispered.  
  
“All right.” Methos pulled away a little further, and dutifully closed his eyes. _Talk about ‘laying’ a ghost,_ he tried to joke, but a thread of bitterness stopped him. Here he lay, so close, yet far enough away that it might as well have been miles, while Duncan burrowed deep into himself and made love to a dead man. _I’m not jealous!_ Methos insisted to himself. _Not jealous of Connor, nor his ghost, if it’s really there…_  
  
He could hear Duncan’s breath quicken, his knuckles rasping against the sheet, and felt again that pang of longing that the ancients had compared to an arrow piercing the heart.  
  
Abruptly, the rustling ceased. “…Methos?” whispered across the bed, “I can’t do it.”  
  
Methos sighed. “If my presence is really a problem, I can always trot off to the Little Boys’ Room for half an hour or so.”  
  
“No, it’s not that. It’s… I’m trying to do two things at once, and one of them’s really hard…”  
  
_And the other isn’t?_ Methos barely kept himself from saying. “You can’t just let your hands run on automatic?”  
  
“No. I’m distracted– The memories clash with… Oh hell, it isn’t working.”  
  
Duncan stirred irritably, and Methos could see the bulge at his groin even under the blankets and quilt. Again came that ache of longing.  
  
“Want me to help?” Methos bit his lip the moment the words escaped, but there was no calling them back.  
  
Duncan only gave him a thoughtful look. “Yes,” was all he said.  
  
For an instant Methos felt the blood leap to his throat, and to his groin. He resolutely pushed the feeling away. No, no wild surmises now: only what the man said, and no more, for only one unspoken fact was clear. _He’s using me. Substitute for Connor. …Well, that’s an upgrade, isn’t it?_ “No problem,” he said lightly, sliding his hand under the sheet. “What’s a little hand-job between friends?”  
  
Duncan chewed his lip, and said nothing.  
  
Methos reached further. His hand found the towel, then the pulsing flesh under it. Gods, but that thing was swollen. _How would it feel–_ No, no such indulgences now. Stick to the job at hand, literally. Methos carefully wrapped the end of the towel around the taut shaft and spread the rest of the cloth over Duncan’s belly. With infinite care he closed his hand around the towel-wrapped flesh. “Ready?” he whispered.  
  
“Ready.” Duncan took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. His hands pressed flat on the mattress, as if not daring to touch anything else.  
  
Methos exhaled slowly, squeezed his hand a little tighter and moved it upward, then back. Slowly, now: in time with Duncan’s breathing, just sliding the skin over the core, steady as a machine, pumping slowly. The minutes stretched long, and Methos wasn’t sure if he was having any effect.  
  
Then Duncan made a small sound in his throat, and his hips thrust upward a fraction of an inch.  
  
_It’s working!_ Methos rejoiced silently. He glanced up at Duncan’s face and saw the man’s eyes moving under his closed lids, sliding left and upward. _Accessing the left brain, memories,_ Methos guessed. _Pray gods it’s the right memory._  
  
Duncan’s breathing quickened. Methos altered speed to match it.  
  
Again that thrust of the hips, a little deeper this time. Methos looked closer and saw that Duncan’s lips were moving, ever so slightly. Talking to someone in his mind: Connor, no doubt — probably confessing his sins and begging for forgiveness. Of course Connor would give it…  
  
Then Duncan gave a great wrenching gasp, and his eyes snapped open. With a broken cry he shoved Methos’ hands away and sat up fast, digging his hands into his hair. The look on his face was of total horror.  
  
_Don’t let him run!_ Methos grabbed Duncan’s shoulders and gripped hard. “What is it?” he snapped. “What happened?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Duncan groaned, “I remembered. My side of it, then his. Oh my God!” He pressed his hands to his face.  
  
_Couldn’t resist Connor’s memories._ Methos hugged him closer. “What did you see, Duncan? What did he show you?”  
  
Duncan shuddered heavily, and then the words tumbled out of him.  
  
“’Ah, Dhonnchaidh, thy beauty stirs even me.’”  
  
Methos felt the hair stand up all over his body, for the voice was not that of Duncan MacLeod. It was Connor’s, to the life.  
  
“’But let him not know,’” that voice sank to a murmur. “’He’d feel frightened, betrayed. Don’t mar his innocence. This dark wisdom he doesn’t need, not yet.’”  
  
Methos clung to Duncan, shivering uncontrollably, wondering just whom he held. Was Connor truly there, or was this just the memory of that mind shaping the vocal cords? “Duncan,” he whispered. “Duncan, are you there? Can you hear me? Can you answer?”  
  
Duncan dropped his hands and turned to look at Methos. Tears were running from his eyes, and his breath came in great gulping sobs. “He thought I was beautiful.” The voice was his own again. “He thought I was innocent!”  
  
“He was right.” Methos gently pulled Duncan back to the pillows. “You are beautiful, and you are innocent — in so many ways. And now you have your answer.”  
  
“He felt it too!”  
  
“He felt the same as you.” Methos cautiously slipped one hand down to Duncan’s chest and rubbed in gentle circles. No lower, not yet.  
  
“He never told me! Not even that last time…”  
  
“He thought it would frighten you.”  
  
“All these years, centuries…”  
  
“Hush, hush…”  
  
“Would it have hurt me so much?”  
  
“Shh…”  
  
“I let him use my body once — but only after he was dead!”  
  
“Duncan, hush.” But just what had Connor wanted? What was in those memories? “He didn’t want to spoil your innocence.”  
  
“Damn my innocence! I could have saved him!”  
  
“You can’t know that. Kell would still have come after him — and you. That fate was set before you were born.”  
  
“I might have kept him from going to Sanctuary…”  
  
“You can’t know that, either.”  
  
“I could have made him happy.”  
  
Gods, how to answer that? How, without sending Duncan back into those too-heavy memories? “Or that might have made him ashamed of taking your innocence. He prized that, remember.”  
  
“How would **you** know?” Duncan sounded almost jealous.  
  
_Think fast._ “Think, Duncan. He was born more than seventy years before you. In those days, the Reformation hadn’t yet come to Scotland; Connor was raised a Catholic. The Catholic church of that time valued innocence, chastity, above damn-near everything else. From what I saw of Connor, he still felt a good bit that way.”  
  
Duncan looked away, unsure now. “…Yet he wasn’t afraid…nor ashamed…”  
  
“Not for himself, perhaps. But for you? He tried to protect you, right down to the end.”  
  
Duncan’s gaze wandered up to the ceiling. “…Dark wisdom, he called it…”  
  
_Don’t let him dive into those memories!_ “Duncan, we all go through this when we lose someone we love. ‘How could I have stopped it? I could have loved him better’ — all useless regrets. We can’t change the past, and it doesn’t help the dead to torment yourself. Let it go, Duncan.” _Let him go!_ “He gave his life to save yours, and that’s how he wanted it. As you loved him, don’t cheapen the gift.”  
  
But Duncan wasn’t listening. His gaze drifted to the window, where pelting rain hammered the dark glass. “What was it he knew?” he murmured.  
  
“Duncan, don’t look at those memories now! It’s late, you’re exhausted, you have all tomorrow and the day after that…”  
  
Something in Duncan’s expression changed, grew hard-eyed and resolute. He sat up and pulled off the robe, then pushed down the blankets. He fixed Methos with a dead-level gaze for a long moment, then lay down and rolled over on his belly.  
  
“Do it,” he said.  
  
For an instant Methos didn’t understand what he meant. _Gods, he can’t be asking me to take his head! Not this again…_  
  
Then the realization hit, with a shock that ran cold up the length of his spine and flared hot in his groin. This was either his fondest secret wish made real, or a stunning insult. He had to know which.  
  
“Duncan,” he said carefully, shifting his thighs to keep his sudden erection hidden, “Do you want to be punished? Degraded? Is that what you want from me?” _Is that what you think of me?_  
  
Duncan shook his head against the pillows. “I need to know,” he said.  
  
“Know what, exactly?”  
  
“What–” Duncan stopped, then resumed. “What the hell I was so damned afraid of.”  
  
But what had he not said? What had he found in Connor’s memories? “You don’t have to do this, not right now.”  
  
“Yes I do!” Duncan almost wailed. “Now, while I still have the guts to…”  
  
“Duncan…” Methos gently stroked his back. “I can’t imagine that you’ll be any less brave in the morning.”  
  
Duncan trembled, and shifted his thighs. “Show me,” he insisted. “Before I look any further. Before I dream…”  
  
There it was; he was determined not to be innocent when he went into Connor’s memories, not to be shocked by anything he saw. And he couldn’t keep away from those memories much longer. If he slept, he might dream them.  
  
“All right,” Methos whispered. “All right.”  
  
He turned to reach for the nightstand, pull open the drawer and fumble with its contents. There: a foil-wrapped condom and a jar of all-in-one antiseptic/spermicide/lubricant — usually needed only to reassure female visitors, but essential now. Methos’ hands trembled as he peeled off the foil wrapper and unrolled the super-thin rubber down his pulsing shaft. Now, open the jar and leave it in easy reach. _Control, control,_ he reminded himself. He had to be as careful now as he ever had in his life.  
  
“Duncan,” he said quietly, bending close, “I won’t hurt you — no matter how much you may want it. Understand?”  
  
Duncan’s only reply was a shiver.  
  
“Listen. This is sex, like any other sex. Done badly, it hurts. Done right, it’s pleasure. And I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
Duncan said nothing, but spread his legs apart.  
  
_Stubborn Scot,_ Methos thought, wiping sudden sweat off his forehead. How many times had he idly daydreamed of this, of courting Duncan as if he were a shy maiden, or welcoming him as a knowing and willing partner? He’d never imagined it like this. He felt a moment of faintness, seeing that splendid body stretched out before him like a sacrifice on an altar. _A virgin sacrifice to Connor’s ghost… Gods, don’t think of that! Control, control…_  
  
Practical matters first. Methos took the rumpled towel, straightened it and shoved it against Duncan’s side. “Up,” he commanded, tapping his flank. Duncan hesitated a moment, then arched up far enough for Methos to slide the towel under him. From the careful way he settled back down, he still had that persistent erection. Methos shoved away the eerie image of Connor’s ghost lurking there, an unseen incubus, luring Duncan into the dark knowledge he hadn’t shared in life.  
  
Slowly, taking care not to let Duncan feel his own stiffened shaft, Methos knelt between his legs. “Relax,” he said. “This won’t work if you’re tense.”  
  
Duncan visibly tried to comply, deliberately slowed his breathing, and possibly recited Yoga mantras in his head. It didn’t seem to do much good.  
  
Methos sighed, then reached to Duncan’s shoulders and began massaging them. “Relax,” he repeated, circling his hands lower. The spinal muscles felt like a rope ladder, the skin like rough satin. Methos pulled several deep breaths and willed himself calm.  
  
Duncan tensed again as Methos’ hands began kneading his buttocks. He relaxed slowly, but a light shiver ran over his back. “Easy, easy…” Methos murmured, proceeding on down one thigh. _Slowly. Give him time. Let the pleasure build before he knows, tries to fight it…_ He didn’t doubt that Duncan would try to fight it off, if he knew; his resolution would war with his deeper fears.  
  
Now down the calf, feeling the sculpted muscles gradually soften. No real tension here; either Duncan had no thought of running, or had never imagined that his lower legs could be erogenous zones. Soon enough, he’d learn otherwise.  
  
Now the foot: take it in one hand and rub with the other. Smoothly down the sole, then each toe in turn: soften and pull and stretch, then bend. A knuckle crackled, and Duncan chuckled briefly. Good sign. Now rub more precisely on either side of the heel, just below the ankle. Duncan had probably never heard that different spots on the foot could stimulate nerves in other parts of the body. Ah, enough at that spot; he was stirring restlessly, and didn’t need any more stimulation in his groin. Press the long pad along the outside of the sole, near the little toe; that one tended to relax the anal muscles. Rub, press gently, over and over, hypnotic repetition.  
  
Duncan made a soft sound of pleasure, little more than a sigh.  
  
_Good. It’s working._ Now switch to the other thigh and repeat the process, all the way down. The muscles felt softer, relaxed, trusting. Methos rubbed at that special place on the foot until he heard Duncan moaning very softly on every breath.  
  
_Now. Second stage._ Methos took both of Duncan’s feet, one in each hand, and circled his thumbs lightly on the soles. Duncan sighed and sagged bonelessly. _Good, good…_ Slowly, slowly, Methos trailed his fingers up both calves, then paused to flicker a spiral of light touches at the backs of the knees. Duncan gasped softly, and his breathing quickened.  
  
Now up the thighs, spread fingertips barely touching the skin. Muscles twitched where the fingers passed. “Methos,” Duncan whispered, panting now, “What are you doing?”  
  
“Seducing you, of course. Hush and enjoy it.”  
  
“Don’t need seducing. I’m willing.”  
  
“There’s more than willingness to it, you know, or haven’t you ever broken in a virgin?”  
  
Duncan made a sound that might have been an indignant snort or a smothered laugh, buried in the pillows. It left Methos wondering, as he swirled his fingers higher. Had no one ever done this for Duncan before, never courted his body nerve by nerve? Never thought he was worth the effort of seducing? Damn!  
  
Duncan flinched as the spread fingers skimmed slowly across his buttocks, shivered, stretched, then subsided. _Afraid,_ Methos guessed, swirling his fingers onward at the same unhurried pace. _But of what, precisely?_  
  
He crept his touch up to the waist, getting no reaction but a quiet sigh. Duncan didn’t expect any fearful sensations here. Ah, but he was wrong. Carefully circle thumbs on either side of the spine, flick fingers down the sides as far as possible, pull back up and repeat. Duncan quivered and a small sound escaped him. A backward glance showed that his toes were curling. Methos allowed himself a smile, knowing that they’d passed the point of no return; the finish was inevitable. He worked his hands higher.  
  
By the time the slow touches reached his middle ribs Duncan realized he was trapped in a net of his own nerves, sinking into a pool of feeling with only his head and arms above the surface. He groaned softly, with more than a touch of fear in the sound, and reached upwards as if grasping for rescue. His hands met nothing but the pillows, and he clenched his fists in them.  
  
_Talk to him._ “Hush,” Methos whispered, dragging his fingertips up between Duncan’s shoulderblades. “Don’t be frightened. This won’t hurt you.”  
  
Duncan groaned again, and Methos realized that fear of pain wasn’t the problem. Duncan might not want to be hurt, but he hadn’t expected this much pleasure, either. Its intensity was swamping his brain, and what that might imply terrified him. He writhed slowly under that subtly maddening touch, tried to pull his legs together, encountered Methos’ thighs and pulled away again, quivering. He was breathing like a storm.  
  
“Don’t be afraid,” Methos whispered again. “It’s all right. Truly, this is only natural.” He slid his fingers across Duncan’s shoulders and down his spread arms, finding hidden nerves, all the way to the wrists. “Gently, gently…it’s nothing to fear…”  
  
But Duncan did have one thing to fear in his growing, utter helplessness. His body twitched and writhed in gathering waves that he couldn’t stop, couldn’t fight. He hadn’t wanted pleasure like this. He arched his head back and gave a breathless wail of despair.  
  
Methos, understanding, leaned close and whispered into his hair. “Easy, easy…I’m here. I won’t let anything hurt you.” Impulsively, he kissed Duncan’s neck.  
  
That worked. Duncan gave a quiet groan and dropped back to the pillows, letting himself sink into the sea of sensation. The slow surging of his body slipped into cadence with his breathing.  
  
_Would this be enough for him?_ Methos wondered — but then he remembered the memories, the dreams that lay waiting. Gods knew what was hidden there, and Duncan had asked to be prepared for it. No, he’d have to finish. Time to shift gears.  
  
With one hand he sketched soft enflaming lines down Duncan’s back while the other dipped into the jar of ointment.  
  
Duncan gasped and jerked his head up as he felt the oiled fingers slide between his buttocks. His muscles tensed until his thighs quivered. Methos trailed spread fingers down his back, distracting him, and whispered in his ear: “Duncan, be assured, you don’t keep your virtue there.”  
  
While Duncan thought that over, Methos ran a skimming touch down his side from armpit to thigh. Duncan groaned and sank back into the bedclothes, back into the helpless rippling.  
  
_Next step._ Methos slid his oiled fingers downward, found the hidden orifice and pressed it, very gently.  
  
Duncan yelped, flinched — then deliberately made himself relax, consenting. He still trembled.  
  
_Like a willing sacrifice,_ Methos thought. _He would have submitted to pain. Now he’s submitting to pleasure — but it’s all offered up on the altar of Connor’s memory. Damn!_  
  
And he could see no way to prevent that, nothing but to go ahead. He circled one finger around the hot ring of muscle, carefully pressing no deeper, waiting, while his other hand continued its course over Duncan’s back and flanks and thighs. Slowly, the muscles relaxed. Only then, just as slowly, did he slide his finger deeper.  
  
Duncan sobbed once, and the ring-muscles tensed. Methos felt them clenching his finger like a hot pulsing fist, and couldn’t help but think of how that would feel around his near-painfully swollen shaft. For an instant he froze, almost faint with yearning. It took colossal effort to pull himself back under control. “Relax,” he murmured. “Push out. Try to push it out.”  
  
A moment’s hesitation, and then the clenched muscles released. _Yes!_ Methos slid his finger back slightly, then thrust it slowly deeper, circling, rubbing softly at the tender walls of flesh.  
  
Duncan gave a soft cry of surrender, and let his face sink into the pillows. His slow writhing fell into rhythm with Methos’ hand. He was giving himself up, but to pleasure or guilt? Did he count this as some execution of his spirit?  
  
Methos leaned over Duncan’s back to whisper closely: “Highlander, this won’t change you. You’ll gain knowledge, yes, but it won’t make you other than you are. Trust me, please.”  
  
Meanwhile his other hand reached for the jar, thrust into the ointment and spread it over his palm and fingers.  
  
Duncan only groaned again, either not hearing or not believing, while his flesh pulsed around that probing finger. The undeniable pleasure was so alien that he couldn’t believe it would leave him unchanged.  
  
_Remind him of his manhood._ Methos spider-walked his newly oiled hand across Duncan’s back, down his side, paused there and flickered, flickered like teasing flames. Duncan moaned faintly and arched upwards, giving more room to that insistent touch. Methos slipped his hand under Duncan’s belly, over the towel, found the pulsing, sculpted column and closed on it. Duncan howled and arched upwards, as if struck with an electric shock.  
  
Methos took the opportunity to slide a second finger into the hot tunnel. Both fingers burrowed deep, then spread wide as opened scissors, and circled. Duncan tried to lunge away from the impossible feeling, and only thrust himself deeper into Methos’ waiting other hand. He thrashed back and forth between the two points of contact, trapped in the overwhelming sensation, each stroke only driving him deeper into the flames. He clawed at the sheets and screamed breathlessly into the pillows.  
  
_Close. So close…_ Methos felt the slick flesh fluttering around his fingers, the muscles softened, loosening, and knew it was time for the last stage. He pulled his fingers back, spread them wide, then leaned forward and slid his throbbing shaft under his hand, touching the tip to the waiting opening.  
  
Duncan whimpered, just once, and froze in mid-lunge. His body quivered like a plucked violin string.  
  
_Now._ Methos slid his fingers away and pressed downward. The hot-shivering flesh closed around him like a burning sea. _Control! Control!_ he thought dizzily, even as he slipped deeper.  
  
Down, down, into the rippling tunnel that squeezed so close, down until he was buried in flesh like a sword sheathed to the hilt. And there, there was the curving wall and the beating vein. There! Now angle downward, just enough. There: the hidden nerve plexus that Yoga masters called the Kundalini Chakra. Oh, there!  
  
Beneath him Duncan arched up like a drawn bow, barely breathing.  
  
With the last shred of his self-control, Methos set the pattern of motion. He pulled back, hand and cock, away from the center — then reversed and thrust both together again, pressing the deep nerves between them.  
  
Duncan howled and lunged blindly, leaping like a racehorse from the starting gate. Methos dropped to his back, caught one thrashing thigh in his free hand and hung on, a helpless rider on a runaway stallion. All he could do was keep matching the thrusts and hold tight; the last of his control was gone, and he was caught up like a leaf in a hurricane.  
  
Duncan surged around him, under him, harder, faster, thrusting into his hand like a piston, wailing on every breath. Methos dimly heard his own voice escaping him, his cries blending with Duncan’s until he could no longer tell the voices apart. The same firestorm swallowed them both together.  
  
Wild images shot through his mind like flashes of lightning: charging his panicked horse through the flame-wall of a prairie fire, diving the length of a pounding waterfall, the wracking fury of a Quickening —gods, the Quickening when he’d killed Silas–  
  
–and beyond them, illuminated in brief lightning-flares, he saw Connor. Connor watching, nodding slowly in perfect understanding.  
  
_Give him to me!_ Methos shrieked silently to the phantom. _“Let go your grip and let him live! Give him to me! I love him!_  
  
For an instant that sad ghostly face seemed to smile.  
  
Then the hammering rhythm rose to a frantic speed, a vast shaking like an earthquake, crowned with a long shivering cry. Methos felt the flesh leap and spurt in his hand, muscles clamping wildly on him, and he felt his own body erupt like a geyser. _Old Faithful,_ was his last coherent thought as the white-hot flood roared through him. _Old Faithful…_  
  
Then the torrent swept him away to blazing oblivion.  
  
Measureless time later, Methos grew aware that he was breathing. The long body under him was breathing too, slowly, deeply, in the pattern of sleep. Methos drew a shaky breath, noticed that he could still feel his pulse beating faintly in his slackened shaft, and another pulse in the warm flesh enclosing it. He was still buried in Duncan’s body, and hadn’t the strength to pull away, weak and boneless as a skinfull of warm water. His hand felt cramped; he remembered where he’d left it, pulled it slowly out from under Duncan’s belly and rubbed it on the towel. He was too drained to do anything else.  
  
Outside the window, the last of the rain fell in slow fat drops, plinking almost musically on the glass. There was no hint of lightning, or thunder.  
  
Beneath him Duncan sighed, stretched, and lay still again. There was no feel of pain or tension anywhere in him now, no sign of lurking nightmares, nothing but a vast peace and silence.  
  
_I’ve done that much._ Methos softly pressed his lips to the back of Duncan’s neck. What would happen in the morning, when Duncan woke and remembered, he couldn’t guess — but at least he had this much.  
  
A sudden pang of feeling swept him, a great tenderness so sharp it made him want to cry. He felt as if he’d been laid open to the bones, and his heart would burst if he didn’t speak, reveal the secret he’d kept so long, even from himself. He’d be safe in that now; Duncan was asleep.  
  
“Duncan,” he whispered to the bowed and unstirring head, “I loved you before I ever met you. I’d read your history, knew how you were: brave and kind and honorable. When I finally laid eyes on you, I lost my heart. That’s why I offered you my head, when Kalas came hunting me. I could never tell you, for the same reason Connor couldn’t…”  
  
He remembered that ghostly face in his visions. Would that rival always haunt him, or Duncan?  
  
“I know I can never be to you what Connor was, but I swear I’ll be what I can. All I have, all I am, is yours. If there can be only one, it will be you. Not me.”  
  
He sighed, and rested his cheek on Duncan’s shoulder. Hopeless love ached in him, stinging his eyes, shivering his breath. He had no strength left.  
  
Slowly, Duncan’s hand slid down from the pillow, grasped Methos’ wrist, squeezed gently, and rested there.  
  
Methos pressed his face to Duncan’s neck, and let the tears come.  
  
  
\--END--

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This story archived at <http://hlfiction.net/viewstory.php?sid=811>


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